There are days where the crows
Are burnt white by cosmologic fans
And the sun spots simmer down on
You, me, everyone.
All the SAD, bi-polar suffering
Children are out on the bleached green
Playing with darts and irregular shaped globes
One that looks like a golden eagle’s head flies
Past whispering something in my ear but
I don’t talk to animals and it seems
The inanimate always want to talk through me
However you look at it, the catch was missed.
Ugly lovers on the bench devoted to a dead dog
Are linking their lips and it is truly good,
These two orange spires, already toppling as the sun
Descends, I sluice the weakening pink light into them.
The scorched trees begin shrug off their colour
And I look back upon this blue burial ground
Of description, now so many ancient clumps of ruin,
You could say it was definitely one of those days
